


go and tell that midnight rider

by angelicwerewolf



Category: Original Work
Genre: Head Injury, Horror, Injury, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence, Supernatural Elements, Urban Fantasy, Urban Legends, a sprinkle of it, a v quick mention of alcohol/drugs, not even the injuries, nothing's too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24829774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicwerewolf/pseuds/angelicwerewolf
Summary: When Hamlet finds himself down a relatively quiet road that runs with farmer fields and arrives to his desired destination, he runs into a small pickle. Nothing he can't handle, though.





	go and tell that midnight rider

**Author's Note:**

> title are lyrics from "God's Gonna Cut You Down" by Johnny Cash.
> 
> ______
> 
> Hamlet's voice is expressionless, void of any ounce of fear, and as mentioned: strange. He was very well aware of this and took advantage in it, since it is working in his favor.

The horse silently galloped. With fur as dark as the night and misty as the shadows in your basement, burning crimson eyes glared at the road ahead -- The stallion’s rider, a man in old and tattered clothes, was equipped with a motorcyclist's helmet that heavily contrasted that of a seemingly antique outfit.

The road down this relatively lonely field of farms saw a few cars pass by, all of which had to take a double take of the unusual sight but were not at all willing to stop. The horse’s nostrils flared, warm breath puffing into the cold air. He stopped suddenly, tapping a hoof on concrete twice -- As if on cue, the rider swings a leg across and climbs down from his terrifying steed; who gets an affectionate gentle pat on the neck; as the rider walks up to his horse’s front and takes him by the lead.  
  
They’re not far from civilization even if seemed as such by the endless fields of corn, wheat, and other hand-grown foods, so it came as no surprise there was a neon-glowing bar up ahead, offering entrance to a town further down. It came to no less of another surprise that a ragtag group caught sight of the intimidating stallion and the rider turning into a small opening in the fence that led up to a field of wheat.  
  
It looks as if they were heading _for_ the bar but changed their mind once they spotted the two lonesome creatures. They didn’t look intoxicated, not even a little bit drunk-- safe to say they’d just begun their night and were already making bad decisions. As the band of five men close the distance between the themselves and the two, the rider goes against heading into the field. He doesn’t need people prodding into his business. Instead, he lets the soon-to-be-troublemakers come inches within him and his stallion, encircling them. They’re not _too_ close, but close enough for discomfort.

The horse’s eyes aren’t burning a bright red as if the sky itself was bleeding. As of the moment, they just looked unusual-- like hazel eyes, flickering depending on the light around them. The short silence in the atmosphere doesn’t deter either party, but he who seems to be the leader, speaks up, in such a fake-friendly voice as if he’d known the rider for years.  
  
“Hey there, buddy! That’s a pretty nice horse you got there,” The ragged blond man waves a hand, trying to get the stallion’s attention. It doesn’t work. “What breed is he?”

The rider just stands and stares, only the sound of the horse’s hooves and breathing filling the air in place of his humanoid companion.

  
“Don’t leave a friendly face down in the dust, come on!”

Although the leader maintained his facade, it was already audible that a little tickle of annoyance seeped through his words at the end there. The rider still didn’t react, so another member of the group spoke in instead. “If my eyes don't deceive me, looks like it’s a Percheron, and a pretty young one, too.”

“Ooh. Percheron, ey?” The leader chimes back in. “Young or old, I reckon this type of horse sells for a pretty sum of euro.”

While they spew on words of no interest to the rider, he has to make sure his horse doesn’t charge at them. _Yet._ The horse is huffing a noise of utter irritation, rearing as if it take charge or buck at the other two behind them-- He has to tug back on the lead just a bit to keep his horse steady, who soon opts for another boring a glare with his head raised as far his rider will let him for the time being. The horse's own annoyance doesn't go unnoticed, it's hard to miss something like that, and it brings attention back to the sole rider of the horse.

  
“What’s this horse’s name, bud?”  
  
 _‘Bud’_ doesn’t say anything.  
  
The little bit of annoyance slips in again with a tiny sigh, followed by a grumble-- the man’s attempt at sounding calm was pretty amusing, but this entire thing that’s been going on for less than five minutes is already grinding the rider's gears.

“Fine, fine. I’ll go first.. I’m Freddy! Nice to meet you. Interesting choice of clothes you got there.”  
  
And still, the rider won’t mutter the tiniest of words. He hadn’t even moved a centimeter come to think of it, only his arm’s moved through this entire ‘exchange’.  
  
“Not the talkative sort, are you?”  
  
 _No. Not really;_ is what the rider would’ve said if he cared enough to, but he’d have to do something if he wanted to bat away these pesky flies. The group leader starts again, different question, same tone. “What’s _your_ damn name then?”  
  
"Hamlet." The rider’s voice was distant, like that of a disembodied thing, but it was very much _there_ and _clear._ Certainly unnatural; everywhere and there, but nowhere and gone. “Hamlet W.”  
  
An obnoxious laugh pierces the quiet freezing air. The rest proceed to join their big bad boss, but way quieter, seemingly more aware of the strange voice. “So you _can_ talk, after all! I was almost convinced a cat had literally caught your tongue, _Hamlet!_ ”  
  
“You could say that.”  
  
“Definitely.” The leader-- Freddy-- dismissively waved and grinned. “Now, forget the horse’s name at this point, since that won’t be necessary anyways. How ‘bout a trade for the animal?" Says Freddy as if a deal had been made, snapping his fingers once. "Name a price."  
  
“This isn’t _Jack and The Beanstalk,_ Freddy. Offer me wealth, alcohol and drugs or priceless valuables, the answer will still be _no._ ”  
  
“Well, now you’re being hasty, buddy--”  
  
“I’m not your buddy.”

  
That appeared to be the second to last straw. Almost immediately, Hamlet let go of his horse’s lead, sure to whisper low for only the horse to hear as Freddy seems to boil his lid off and his goons attempt to ease him,

_‘Easy, Moose. Not yet. On my cue, okay?’_ Hamlet suspects the two men closest to their rear can tell he’s completely unarmed when he curls and rests both arms behind his back, nestled at the bottom end of his spine. To them, he’s just a strange vagabond with an expensive-looking helmet and a unique horse to his name.

Hamlet was patiently wait when, finally, the man’s short patience gives after failed attempts of being cooled. “Alright. Listen here. Don’t be a smartass with me, you insufferable _twat._ Don't you know who I _am?"_ There's a furious snort somewhere when Hamlet cocks his head to the side. "Give me the fucking horse and we won’t hurt you. That’s all we’re here for, but as compensation for being a difficult little motherfucker, I’ll take your helmet as well.”

Hamlet almost, _almost_ slipped out a laugh, but being bothered by try-hard robbers killed the silliness of it all. “Mm. Try it, then. Take it-- See where it gets you.” Hamlet drops both arms to favor crossing them above his chest. Rumples of the coat become more disheveled, threatening to tear further at any moment. It’s a stern pose that accompanies his invisible gaze past the visors of said helmet, scanning the little crowd from back, side, front. “Don’t look like your goons are gonna help, either.”

This prompts the leader to inspect. His buddies did not look all too pleased with how the situation’s turning out, nor where they too brave anymore.

  
Hamlet's voice is expressionless, void of any ounce of fear, and as mentioned: strange. He was very well aware of this and took advantage in it, since it is working in his favor. “Could it be that you lot take from those you intimidate successfully since they’re too fragile or outnumbered to fight back? Maybe even threatened by weapons. I’m sorry to disappoint.”  
  
And that, was the final straw to which antagonize Fred Boss here beyond reason. Hamlet doesn’t care to move when the man’s lunging for his face, not even Moose who’s only still as per his rider’s request. Despite what looked like an apparent tackle, Freddy instead connected a fierce punch to the jaw of the helmet-- one that was probably enough to fracture a bone or two, but it only sent said helmet flying somewhere behind them. Hamlet could hear the shuffle of feet, dodging the oncoming headpiece.  
  
What follows next is always Hamlet’s favorite for muggers too confident in their tactics.

Their looks of horror and shock once they realize that maybe the rider of the horse wasn’t human after all, if the lack of a head wasn’t enough of a giveaway; and Freddy’s reconsidering his actions as he warily steps back and his crew's soon gathering behind him, all turning into a fear-stricken deer in the headlights. It's Hamlet's turn to sigh, something impossible for a something with no head.  
  
He draws a palm out, a dark mist manifesting in the form of a baseball-sized orb before it stretches into a long and thin line. It soon bends and crooks here and there, growing solid and a bit thicker-- at higher tip of the pole, just above his and Moose’s head, a clean-sharp blade grows out; shining under streetlamp light.

  
As they watch the ongoing spectacle of the supernatural, Freddy could almost hear Hamlet’s voice right next to his ears.

“Pick a god and pray.” Then down came the scythe and forward came the horse, eyes back to burning skies red, chasing the rest off to wherever they could scatter to safety from a horrifying horse. As for the group's leader, Freddy, he had collapsed to the ground in a pathetic heap. Alive, but unconscious and wounded. Hamlet had definitely considered decapitating him, but decided against the untimely gruesome end and instead used the handle of his scythe for a good, but non-lethal blunt hit. No crack, no blood, no open wound but sure a bruise and lots of vomiting.  
  
It’s not that Hamlet took pity on his mugger; It’s just that it wasn’t worth the effort. _A_ _concussion should be enough_ , Hamlet thinks, now standing just above Freddy, _Ought to be time he was taught a lesson, anyways_. Same for his goons who were quickly chased off by Moose; who was now on his way back from frightening them. He calmly trudged back to his rider's side, only then noticing the leader was alive. He whines angrily and with threat to the unconscious figure, almost considering biting him.

“Don’t worry, Moose." Hamlet's scythe evaporates as quickly as it had come, "I think he’ll learn." and a hand is set against Moose's neck again where he proceeds to scratch and rub the fur. “And good boy, Moose, you delightful nightmare! I hope they see you in their dreams tonight.”  
  
The praise and reassurance not only greatly boosts the horse’s confidence, but it calms him. Moose whines again, but in a gentler and happier tone-- opposite to the sneering chatter he’d given the group. Hamlet continues, smiling if he could, but his voice's smile was enough for the stallion. “And hey, if Fred Boss here doesn’t learn a thing or two after all, let’s chase him down, hm? Now,”  
  
Hamlet runs his hand up Moose’s neck and up to his snout, offering one more pat before his attention is fully on the concussed man before them. “He’s got a nice trench coat, don’t you think, Moose?"  
  
In return, Moose does actually nod with an agreeing snort. His rider chuckles, "Then perhaps it’s time I changed my spiff.”  
  
And without so much care or concern for the man with a concussion, he rolls his body to the side and strips him off the coat. It was grey and black, a bit furry on the neck flaps, which was to be expected, it’s autumn after all, not that Hamlet feels warmth or cold. It was scented of cologne, a horrible one but he'd fix that. “This’ll do. I’ll get a sweater to match soon enough,” then off the road he nudges the body onto the sidewalk with Moose's help.

  
After that's done, Hamlet walks his way to where his helmet laid, continuing to speak, taunting again the one who couldn't hear. “I’ll take your coat as compensation, for being such a difficult twat, Freddy.” Is said as the old and dirty Victorian Times's coat being taken off, and the new fuzzy trench coat’s put on and fastened. “Thanks for your wonderful circus performance, but plan it out better next time.” Hamlet then bends down as he finishes, grabbing the helmet and shooting back to his full height. He lodges said headpiece back on, but he knocks it gently then a bit more rougher, to make sure it won’t fall off again. Once he's sure it's secured, he's good to go.  
  
He takes a final glance to Freddy and the town up ahead. Really-- The group should be proud, not for wasting his time and tussling with the unknown, but because they just lengthened an old, _old_ farmer’s life by a few more. The job of a grim reaper is to collect when time's come, but exceptions can be made when you’re a headless horseman and such was one today. So finally, he scoots back his horse’s side and gracefully mounts the towering creature-- Before he takes off back from the path he took, he bids farewell to only the house atop the lonely hill where you could _almost_ make out the forms of a family, including a grandfather, indoors celebrating something or other.  
  
He’ll let him live for longer than he was due. It’s ever so, _so_ rarely fate interjects like this, so he therefore shall respect it.  
  
Hamlet gently twice clicks a tongue that's not there, but regardless, it's Moose’s cue to turn them both around and travel down the road they previously climbed.  
  
Another day, another job.

**Author's Note:**

> this is quite an old oc that I've been revamping and working on, tho the premise of him being headless horseman working as a grim reaper has always been his jig and I had to write this to get this little scene out of my system fhsjhfdljhdj
> 
> Hamlet's middle name is "Werner", by the way, and yes he definitely chose his horse's name. Hamlet is neither good or evil, he just kinda does whatever he thinks is right. He's not cruel or anything but when he takes no shit, he takes no shit. fshshshddh,, also even without his head, Hamlet can hear, see, smell and ofc, talk; he doesn't really require it to do any of these, but he has long since found his head. Since it's a weak point that can actually kill him, he has it buried in a capsule somewhere. It's like 2025 as this little snippet takes place so he found back in like... uhhhh the 1990's? and he came about in the early 1700's.


End file.
